


and the pavement hurt my feelings

by jonsrightrib (sotakeabitofcalpol)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical suicidal ideation, Gen, it’s mostly introspection tbh, pre-unknowing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:07:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25782601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sotakeabitofcalpol/pseuds/jonsrightrib
Summary: the thing is, Jon had been his best friend, or at the very least a friend.now he’s too scared to walk into the kitchen with him.
Kudos: 16





	and the pavement hurt my feelings

**Author's Note:**

> I’m a sucker for pre-Unknowing angst
> 
> Trigger Warnings for mentions of drowning, arguments, scars and food
> 
> (please let me know if I’ve forgotten any!)

He's stood there, clutching at one of the shitty mugs from the charity shop as it steams, and it must be burning...well, one of his hands. Tim knows there's no feeling in the other one now. He's a mess of old wounds, is Jon, scar tissue covering his body and his soul, combining into what stands to the left of the fridge door.

He doesn't react.

The emotions run so high in this place they all ride them like they're caught in a fucking rip tide. He knows that him and Daisy and Melanie all form a feedback loop of anger that fuels the current, and that Jon is drowning in it, but he can't stop, or he'll be dragged down too. He can feel the anger at his heels now, can hear the distant sounds of Melanie putting books down too hard. It all stops at the doorframe, though. Jon isn't feeling anything right now. Jon is just empty.

He's...god, he looks so young, younger than Jon has any right to look with his eyes. He forgets that Jon lies about how old he is, in his anger. He forgets more than he should. The t-shirt is one Sasha bought him for a birthday back before the Archives, and has no right to hang off his frail bones. It has no right to make him want to care for Jon, not now, not after all he's done, but he wants to dump him on his sofa and force him into a blanket pile until he remembers how to smile without fear or bitterness. He wants Sasha to gently rib a tipsy Martin and them all to have a happy ending, to be happy.

No chance of that any more. Only a death that might mean everyone else gets one. He's not coming back from this. Part of him hopes Jon doesn't either, but not because he's cruel. Because Jon doesn't have anything left to give. All that's really left for both of them is to lose.

He almost goes over, if only to reach past him to grab whatever's edible in the cupboards. It's way past the time he should have eaten, but they've been in what can charitably called a meeting, doing what can't, even charitably, pass for planning. He always, without the humour there should be, thinks he wasn't wrong in saying Basira and Jon could have been dating. They're far too similar in the way they think, no plan, just a goal that will be achieved, goddamnit. Basira stormed out when Martin had questioned her, and the meeting had adjourned when he got a phone call thirty seconds later that blanched his face farther than anyone had thought possible and left after her. Different way of doing it, different trauma. Basira holds her head high, Jon shrinks back like he can vanish.  
  


There should be a few pot noodles stashed at the back of the cupboard, marked for him by post-it notes that probably proclaim something humorous in his own handwriting. He can't bring himself to set a foot over the threshold. He's terrified of talking to a man he'd once declared was less intimidating than a fucking puppy, a man he'd been best friends with.  
  


The radio; not a radio really, a CD player ~~because why would a radio work down here, they're so far from normal reality in this basement~~ pumps music into dead air through tinny speakers, and he strains to hear the words so he'll stop focusing on the frozen form in front of him. Something indie, acoustic. He can't for the life of him work out who's cd it was. Maybe someone bought it for Martin, assuming Martin's taste in music wasn't a bizarre blend of ABBA, classical and Red Hot Chilli Peppers.

The song reaches a crescendo, and blends back into the quiet. The words echo back at him without mercy, settle amongst guilt and anger in his gut.  
  


_there's a reason London puts barriers on the tube line_

_there's a reason that London puts barriers on the rails_

_there's a reason they fail_

  
And that's the whole thing, isn't it. They could've tried to stop this in any way. But it was inevitable. Doesn't stop him from wanting to scream and cry in a way he can't, not since every bit of him except anger drained out of him like an upturned bucket, but it was inevitable.

  
So he leaves. Turns his back on Jon yet again, walks back to his desk. Leaves Jon staring at nothing, with the world ending in his mind, and a cup of tea burning his hands.

**Author's Note:**

> this has been sat in my drafts a while
> 
> the lyrics and title are from Jubilee Line by Wilbur


End file.
